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Sunday, June 24, 2018

“Emmanuel: In the Boat”

Mark 4:35-41

Sunday, June 24, 2018
First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

To live in Kansas is to know a few
things about storms. We know what it means when the temperature suddenly drops
on a hot summer day. We can tell by looking at clouds whether we’re in for
rain, lightning, or hail. We know which way the weather usually comes from and
how to quickly scan the radar and figure out when it’s time to head for
shelter. We know that different shades of gray in the sky mean different
things...and that a green sky means something else altogether.

When I was little girl, my dad used
to pull my leg by telling me this about watching for storms. He said, “If
you’re watching out the window and a big storm is coming, just look at the
leaves on the tree. When the leaves start to point up, that means it’s time to
go to the basement.”

“Why, Daddy?” I’d ask.

“Because,” he’d say, laughing, “When
the leaves are pointed straight up, it means that tree is coming out of the
ground and you’d better run and hide!”

But all joking aside...storms are
serious. We 21st century folks may have basements and interior closets and
access to advanced forecasting technology, but we aren’t so unlike the ancient
people that jump off the pages of scripture. Storms are a mighty reminder that
we humans are fragile and vulnerable. Storms remind us that things can change
in an instant. Storms are a reminder that there are so many things that are
completely outside of our control.

And storms on the sea? Well, that’s
a whole other level of scary. Because when you’re in the middle of a massive
body of water, you’re vulnerable in new and frightening ways. When a storm
comes at sea, there’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Storms can come up
quickly, leaving you unable to get to a safe shore. Storm clouds make it
difficult or impossible to use the sky to navigate in any meaningful way. It’s
just you and a tiny boat against all the forces of nature. And a small boat is
no match for a violently swirling sea. A small boat turns out to be a mere
illusion of safety once the water is coming up over the sides. It’s no wonder
that the ancients embodied chaos in their stories as Leviathan - a sea monster.
Because the sea is a terrifying, chaotic place in the midst of a storm.

The Rev. Karoline Lewis says, of
this morning’s passage from Mark:

There is no end to sermons on this
story that allegorize the boat, and, for that matter, everything else in this
sea passage tale.

You know how these sermons tend to go -- Jesus is in the boat with you.” “How
many times does it feel like you are in a storm and Jesus is asleep?” “What
boats are you in at this point in your life?” “What are the storms that are
tossing your life around?” None of this is necessarily bad. It’s just that the
boat becomes a metaphor for all kinds of things rather than simply what it is
-- a traveling vessel. A means by which to get from one place to another. Maybe
the boat is simply a boat. Maybe the point is that Jesus is just trying to get
us to the other side. [1]

At the risk of allegorizing too much
for Rev. Lewis’s tastes, I would add, “Maybe the boat represents all manner of
traveling vessels. All the ways we humans try to get safely from one place to another.”

Maybe the boat isn’t just a boat but
is also a Greyhound bus where regular everyday people like you and me are
traveling from one town to another. Lulled to sleep by the sounds of the tires
on the pavement below them, they are safe and secure inside their small vessel.
But the illusion of safety is shattered as ICE agents board their vessel and
demand to see citizenship paperwork. [2]

Maybe the boat is also an airplane
with a group of very young children on it. They have been taken from their
parents and are traveling to God-knows-where….Michigan, New York, Topeka. The
children are far from home. Far from shore. [3]

Maybe the boat is also a tiny raft
floating on the Rio Grande river. A mother holds her five-year-old son tight,
tight, tight. They have traveled thousands of miles to run from an abusive
husband and father who has threatened to kill them. The are seeking another
shore, but they aren’t there just yet. They had hoped to cross a bridge and
declare themselves at a sanctioned port of entry, but the gate is closed, so
they take their chances on the river and with this tiny raft. [4]

In all of these fragile vessels
there are humans crying out alongside the disciples with those ancient words,
“Jesus, do you not care that we are perishing?”

Do you not care that we are
perishing?

This story from Mark’s gospel is
usually categorized as a “miracle story.” Jesus is the one who turns water into
wine, casts out the demons, revives the sick, feeds the masses, stills the
storm. Can Jesus control the weather? Do we follow the One who can literally
stop the winds from blowing and the waves from crashing?

If we read this story as a literal
tale of a historic event, then it would seem so. But if we asked those who have
begged and pleaded for Jesus to stop storms in their own lives, we might get a
different answer. Sometimes the storm keeps coming. Sometimes the wind keeps
wailing. Sometimes the children keep crying. Sometimes parents are begging to
know where their children are and when they will see them again….and no answers
come.

But there is a second miracle in
this story. And maybe it seems so small that we miss it because of the larger,
more dramatic elements. The second miracle in this story is that Jesus is in
the boat. When the story begins, the people are on a journey across the water
to the other shore. And Jesus doesn’t say, “Come, it’s time for you to take
this long journey on your own.” Jesus says, “Come, let US go across to the
other side.”

Jesus is IN the boat. Jesus is on the
Greyhound bus. Jesus is on the flight at 30,000 feet. Jesus is on the small
raft floating down the Rio Grande.

Jesus is in the converted old
Walmart. Jesus is in the tent city. Jesus is in the group home. Jesus is in the
courtrooms.

And Jesus will not leave. Not ever.

When we humans cry out in fear,
“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus arises, and says to the
chaos, “Peace, be still.”

Jesus is in the boat. The one we
call Emmanuel because his presence reminds us that God is with us.

And God hears the cries of her
children, calling out in desperation from Guatemala and Honduras and Tornillo
and Topeka and New York and in every other place. God is on each and every
vessel, no matter how small or large, no matter whether it is seen or hidden.
God is present in each breath, in each heartbeat, in each cry, in each and
every place where his beloved children are in pain. God specializes in seeing
those that no one else wants to see. God sees. God acknowledges. God loves. God
will never leave.

The presence of Christ reminds us
that God is fully present. I have a colleague, Gayle Engel, who closes his
prayers by saying “we pray in the name of Jesus, who is the still point of the
turning world.” Jesus - the one who rests peacefully on a storm-tossed ship.
Jesus - the one we cry out to when we are perishing. Jesus - the Word who
speaks and changes the world.

When we pray, we re-orient ourselves
away from the chaos and towards the One who is our Creator, Redeemer, and
Sustainer.

When we pray, we turn towards our
Teacher and we hear the words “Peace, be still” and realize Jesus is not only
talking to the eternal elements….Jesus is also addressing the chaos that seeps
into our hearts.

When we quiet ourselves and turn to
God in prayer, we remember who. we. ARE.

And we remember who God is. And we
remember our connection to every other part of creation - including the
children who cry out in agony, the parents who are stunned into silence, and
the regular everyday people who are committing these acts of violence because
they’re just following orders.

Prayer is a place to find stillness
and to ask the deeper questions. To nurture our understanding of our place in
creation. To find unity with other human beings. To remember that we are always
at home in God and God is always at home in us.

In a daily devotion earlier this
week, Father Richard Rohr contemplated what it might look like if every person
of faith had as their “set-point, baseline, and fundamental assumption about
every single person” in the world that each and every person is sacred, holy,
beloved by God. [5]

Friends, there is evil present in
our world that is attempting to tell us one of the greatest lies that can be
told - the lie that only some people matter. Jesus stood against this lie. The
entirety of our scripture tells another story. We have to be on guard against
this lie. We have to return, again and again, each and every day to the truth,
which Father Rohr expresses like this, "Something infinite, immortal,
mysterious, loving, and alive abides in me and it is from this light that I bow
toward that which is infinite, immortal, mysterious, loving, and alive in you.”
[6]

I invite you to join me as we orient
ourselves towards that infinite, mysterious, loving, living force that abides
in each and every part of creation. You may find it helpful to visualize a
child who is alone and frightened. Or a parent who is waiting to learn where
their child is and figure out how to be reunited. Or a person who is at work
right now being asked to hurt other humans. As you visualize these people, you
may want to find that small light inside of you and send it to connect with the
light of God that you see within them.

In this time of prayer, you may
choose to keep silence, you may cry, you may sing (and if we know the song, we
may join you), or you may find that you want to put words to your prayer.

Let us pray together….

(time for prayers)

….we pray in the name of Jesus, the
still-point of the turning world. Emmanuel. The one in the boat with us all.
Amen.